Not Without You
by Starlightningx
Summary: Shizuo Heiwajima isn't a man of many words or many friends, and the last thing he wants to do is befriend the flea he served at his bar. But there's definitely something different about this flea - the marks that decorate his arms prove it. [SHIZAYA, AU, MAY BE CONSIDERED TRIGGERING, WILL PUT WARNINGS AND RATINGS ON EACH CHAPTER]
1. Chapter 1

_Warning :: Mentions of cutting._

Thanks for deciding to read this fic! Really, it means so much. I just want to say that I'm a huge lover of angst fics. Some part of me just wants to see my favorite characters suffer. I'll also promise you I always give happy endings. No matter how sad things get, it's not the end. If it's not happy, it's not the end! Enjoy, and please review!

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The first thing the bartender noticed about the man was his small smirk that seemed to be permanently frozen on his thin, pale face. The second were the crimson red eyes that hid something the blonde couldn't quit put his finger on, something melancholic and sobering. Third came his attire, a black, long-sleeved shirt that hugged close to his small frame accompanied with simple gray trousers.

The final thing he noticed about the man was how much he instinctively annoyed him, even without his irritating voice, a voice that held a grating lilt.

"The strongest thing you've got, if you will."

The blonde couldn't help the low growl that escaped his throat as he turned his back to the raven-haired man. In front of him was an arsenal of ingredients for all types of beverage, an alcoholic's haven. The strongest thing he could make with all of this would kill the man in behind him, especially a man so lithe and light as he.

_Would that really be a bad thing? _The blonde thought to himself.

Still though, the bartender could get fired, or even arrested if he got the man killed. Although he wasn't the best at controlling his temper or thinking logically, he really didn't want to be put in jail, especially when he was only twenty-five. He decided to prepare a simple liquor, one that could still make one stinking drunk, but not quite put you on your ass.

Once the mixing was done, he turned back to the skinny man and practically slammed the glass onto the counter, a bit of the liquid sloshing out of the cup and the ice clinking noisily inside.

"Here you are."

The man raised an eyebrow, both at the bartenders actions and at his own suspicion.

"Are you sure this is your strongest?" He finally says.

"Absolutely." The blonde grunts, burning holes through the mans chest with his hateful gaze.

The raven-haired man doesn't make a move to drink for a moment, but breaks the silence with a quick, wild laugh and downs the contents of the glass in one gulp. He lightly wipes his mouth off with his sleeve and pushes the glass towards the blonde.

"More. Don't worry, I've got more than enough money."

To the blondes annoyance, this continued until around eight drinks later. He would make a drink, the man would drink all of it, slowing down with each glass. He supposed that the man was beyond drunk and arriving shit-faced at this point. Although the behavior of drunks made the bartender more furious than a good amount of other things in the world, most people got very _generous_ when drunk.

The blonde could do with as much extra cash he could. He wasn't exactly rich, and every little bit helped.

"God, it's hot in here," The raven-haired man giggled, stretching out his arms as if he were exhausted. "Can I take my shirt off? I'm serious, it's like Satan's vagina here."

"No." The blonde hissed.

The man pouted, resting his head on the counter for a second before sitting back up.

"What's your name?"

The bartender didn't know why the hell this man wanted to know his name. What good would it do him? He quickly thought to simply ignore him, but a different, crazier part of his brain rationalized that he was just drunk and he'd forget it in the daze of his hangover anyway, if not sooner.

"Shizuo Heiwajima."

"Shizuo," The man repeated, trying the word out on his tongue. "I honestly don't get the impression of a peaceful man from you."

Shizuo didn't need to be reminded of his inability to be a normally functioning human being. It was the bane of his existence, the thing that helped spawn his lack of self-esteem. Mentioning it was also a trigger of sorts, something that always made him snap and destroy things.

And this man had already been so very _annoying_ from the start.

Before he could rip up one of the bolted down chairs to slam it over the man's head, to knock him unconscious, hopefully dead, he gave a small laugh and raised up his sleeves all the way up to his elbows.

"Well, if I can't take off my shirt, I'll just make do with this."

Shizuo froze and his fingers, grasping tightly onto the wooden chair, fell loose.

Dancing across the mans arms were cuts and slices of different variety, pink and red and white. Some were light, some were deep, some were beginning to fade. They covered his entire arm, and they continued into the part of his sleeves that still covered his arms.

"I'm Izaya, by the way." The man mentioned nonchalantly, crossing his arms on the table. "Orihara Izaya."

Shizuo snapped his gaping mouth shut, but couldn't force his eyes away from the ugly slashes. The funny thing was that it wasn't only marks made from a knife, but deep purple and blue bruises littered in a haphazard manner.

"Are you going to stare at my arms all day or get me another drink?" Izaya questioned, tilting his head slightly to the side, mocking.

_Fucking Christ,_ Shizuo thought. _How can he be such a jack ass and be this fucking damaged_?

Still though, Shizuo made the man yet another drink, almost dropping it on his way back.

The man leaned back into the chair, crossing his legs left over right. He lifted the glass lazily to his lips and took a small sip.

"Tell me about yourself, Shizu-chan."

"Don't fucking call me that, you god damn louse."

Izaya looked amuse, a grin replacing that smirk. "But you just nicknamed me, too! I think we're even now, no?"

Shizuo growled, wanting more and more to kill the man, to go through with his previous plan... but he couldn't, not when he saw what he saw. He found himself wanting to know why he'd done that, and if those bruises were caused by him as well or someone else.

"Why the fuck do you wanna know about me?"

"I thought we could be friends." He teased, smirk yet again plastered onto his face.

"You're getting drunk in a bar." Shizuo replied matter-of-fact. "I don't want to be friends with little shits like that."

"And you're the one serving me the drinks, Shizu-chan!~" Izaya sang, moving his finger to the tune he made on the spot.

Shizuo ignored the nickname.

"Why don't you speak first then, flea?"

The man put a finger to his chin and pretended to contemplate for a moment.

"Nope, sorry, can't. Turns out I just don't operate that way." The man downed his drink, dropping it onto the table once finished. "I'll be back soon enough, Shizu-chan! See you later.~"

With that, he stood up and stumbled his way out of the bar, slamming the door clumsily behind him.

**=x=**

"How are you doing today, Shizuo?" The woman asked, a pleasant smile gracing her pink lips.

The room was cold, almost freezing, but the burgundy furniture he sat upon was warm and inviting, much like the woman in front of him. She was blonde, beautiful, and the kind of lady he wanted to say vows with one day. Perfect in every way. She knew more about him than anyone else.

Or so he thought.

"I think I'm getting better." Shizuo replied, hateful tone from the other night completely gone.

"I'm so glad to hear that." Her smile was genuine and happy. "Has anything happened recently?"

Shizuo didn't know if he should tell her. She was his therapist-supposedly he could tell her anything at all without being judged. It wasn't that that he was afraid of – he felt that he would be bothering her.

"I met this weird guy..." He began.

"A weird guy?"

"He was some drunkard, I guess. He drank about nine glasses of liquor and then split." Shizuo continued. "He was really annoying. Started calling me 'Shizu-chan' or some shit and his voice made me want to rip my damn ears off."

Shizuo frowned, then recalling the scars he'd seen.

"But then he pulled up his sleeves when he got hot, and there were cuts and bruises." Shizuo finished, deciding to leave off there.

The woman frowned, lost in thought for a bit. After a moments hesitation, she spoke.

"Maybe he's like you."

Shizuo narrowed his eyes, suddenly at odds with the woman in front of him.

"He ain't like me, Vorona."

"Well, how do you know? Did you both talk?" She asked, giving Shizuo a serious look.

"Not really. I don't guess you could call it talking." He admitted, scratching his head.

"Did he say he was going to be back?"

Shizuo didn't really want to tell her, but the look in her eyes was insistent, and he didn't want to upset or disappoint the girl he so admired.

"Yeah, he did."

"When he comes back, talk to him." Vorona smiled. "Tell him about yourself. Maybe he'll open up to you, and you could be friends."

The mere idea of being friends with that repugnant, skinny, repulsive black-haired bastard was absolutely horrifying, but he faked a smile just for Vorona's sake.

"R-right."

When Shizuo left the cold office, he noticed that rain had begun pouring down from the cloudy gray sky. It was fitting, he thought, that it began raining after that. He knew, just knew, that his life would be a downward spiral from here.

Talk to that _thing_?

Bastard?

Mutant?

Creature?

_It_?

No way in hell.

…

Still, though.

_Where the hell had those cuts and bruises come from?_


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for all of the reviews! I appreciate and read every single one. There's not really much to talk about with this, so here's the second chapter of Not Without You. I hope you enjoy!

**Warnings! ::****_ CONTAINS ABUSE._**

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Going home was always the worst part for Izaya. He was still drunk, his mind feeling muddled and somewhat unclear. His body was tingling with a familiar numbness that alcohol always seemed to give him. He felt almost at peace, but the sense of dread lingered over him with each staggering step he took.

He knew what to expect when he got there. If he was lucky, he'd still be sound asleep in his bed. It _was_ hitting midnight, after all. Was there any god in this universe, they'd grant him that one favor.

Soon enough, he was there, in front of the bare brown door. The wind rustled in the nearby trees, the only sound other than that of him fumbling with his keys.

Quietly, he turned the correct key, silently cursing the slight creak the door made as it opened.

It was dark. He let out a soft sigh of relief, pushing the key back into his pocket. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him as gently as he could and locked it back in place.

The only sound was of the television chattering in the background. There was a dim light coming from the kitchen, but he dared not get so close to his room at the moment. He made his way down the hallway and into the white bathroom, thankful for the nightlight inside.

The mirror seemed to mock him. He looked like hell. There was a red flush to his skin, dark circles lined underneath his crimson eyes. His hair was disheveled and in terrible need of combing. In that moment, he was certain if you looked up "mess" in the dictionary, you'd see his current appearance.

All of that, however, was absolutely nothing to what he noticed next.

He swore they were laughing at him. The cuts and bruises on his skin were definitely laughing, no, _ridiculing_ him at this very moment.

He'd seen them. That bartender had fucking _seen them._

His stomach seemed to fall straight down to his knees, the sense of dread intensifying with each passing second.

_He saw them, he saw them, he fucking saw them._

His grip tightened on the sinks counter. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the visage of himself. He wanted everything about this night to be a simple lie. Was he really this stupid? Why in gods name had he done that? If alcohol really made him act this irrationally, he vowed to never consume it agai-

His thoughts were interrupted when pain sprouted throughout him. A rough and calloused hand yanked at his messy hair, straining against the roots.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Izaya swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He willed himself to speak, to say something that would save him from what was to happen, but it was as if his body had forgotten how.

It wouldn't have mattered if he'd said anything. The hand carelessly tossed him down, back onto the wooden floor of the hallway. Izaya fell with a thud, a sharp pain shooting across the arm he had landed on. Before he could process what had happened, he was lifted up by the neck of his shirt and shoved clumsily against the wall.

That was when words became obsolete. Izaya was nothing in that moment. His cries of pain were automatic and lacked any true agony. He had long become used to this – used to the feeling of a fist connecting with his face, far used to the feeling of being unable to catch your breath. The way he'd drop you and just leave you there when he was done, gasping and broken on the floor, unable to even move.

Everything hurt. He wished that he were still numb. Now his entire body was alight with pain; it traveled down his spine, up his broken arm, through his battered legs and across his bruised chest.

But despite all of that, Izaya felt so very..._ loved_ at that moment. He forgave him. He'd always forgive him, no matter how many times he did it. He knew that this was only his way of expressing love, even if it was a little violent.

His eyes trailed back down to his wrists. They were still scarred, still ugly and ruined. Some of the cuts had opened from the abuse, leaving trickles of blood running onto the cold wood. He would need to clean that up. His lover wouldn't like it if it left a stain.

He tried to move, to crawl to the couch, to find purchase on the slick floor, but his limbs and the left-over liquor refused. Giving in, he made himself as comfortable as an unmoving man could. He let his eyes slip lazily shut, trying desperately to ignore the discomfort of the wood underneath him.

**=x=**

"Good work as always, brother."

Shizuo froze. The voice was the same monotone drone that he was so used to from his childhood. Turning around, he noticed it was also the same brown hair and dull eyes that always appeared to see straight through you.

"Kasuka."

He gave a small nod and took a seat.

Neither of them said a word. If there was anything Shizuo hated, it was awkward silences. He could practically feel his anger building slowly, but he managed to control himself.

"Can I get you something?"

"Ah... no. I don't drink."

Silence ensued yet again. Right before Shizuo could snap, Kasuka spoke.

"There's something I need to tell you."

"What's that?"

Kasuka seemed slightly hesitant to speak.

"I'm going to visit father."

Shizuo said nothing. If his anger had been high moments ago, it was skyrocketing now. The mere mention of his name filled him with malice and utter disgust. It was a silent anger, a scary anger that made even Kasuka somewhat worried about what he would do next.

"I know how you feel about it. I just thought you should know... and it'd be good for you if you went."

Shizuo didn't say a thing. He felt he would explode if he did.

"He's changed, you know-"

"LIKE FUCK HE'S CHANGED, KASUKA!"

Other people in the bar froze and turned to stare at the blonde, shocked at his sudden outburst. Kasuka, long expecting it, kept his mask held firmly in place.

"I'm not telling you to come," Kasuka stated. "I felt it would only be fair if you knew."

Shizuo knew that he was acting irrationally, but he was so consumed with fury that he couldn't think straight.

"Get the fuck out."

Kasuka was silent for all of three seconds before quietly nodding and taking his leave from the bar. After a while, everyone in the bar went back to their individual conversations and forgot about the sudden outburst.

Shizuo was still shaken.

_Going to see our father? CHANGED? Has Kasuka completely forgotten what he did to the both of us?! _

Shizuo stood there, not acknowledging the people trying to order more drinks. He was lost in his own thoughts, completely oblivious to the world around him. A hand on his shoulder interrupted him from the tornado whirling inside of his brain, calling him back to reality.

"Shizuo. You alright?" His co-worker, Tom, looked concerned.

He thought about that answer to that. In terms of physical condition, he was perfect. But on the other hand...

The bartender took a deep breath and gritted his teeth.

"No."

Tom nodded, not quite understanding, but not willing to anger the famed monster. "You can go home today. We're about to close anyway."

Normally Shizuo would've objected, but he just did as told this time.

On his walk home, his mind was racing with thoughts of his father. When Kasuka went to see him, would he hurt him again? Shizuo wouldn't be there to protect him this time. He wouldn't be able to save him. Like fucking hell he'd changed. Kasuka never got to experience the full brunt of what had happened – he'd only witnessed. No, he had to stop Kasuka. He had to. He whipped out his phone and dialed Kasuka's number, but there was no response.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, __**FUCK**__._

He needed to talk to Kasuka as soon as possible. If he didn't, he'd go to that bastard and get himself killed. He'd call him in the morning, and if he didn't pick up, he'd go over there and knock some sense into Kasuka's stupid ass.

At the moment, he needed a distraction. He felt like part of him was going crazy. He tried to think of anything, anything other than Kasuka and what he'd said at the bar – and stumbled upon the thought of the raven-haired man he met the other day.

_That's right, he wasn't here today,_ Shizuo realized.

Tch. He was probably out at another bar annoying some other bartender. It was nothing to worry about.

… In that case, had that guy also seen his scars? Had he done anything different? Had he asked about them?

Had he gotten help for him? Did that flea need _help?_

For a moment, he'd forgotten about the issue with Kasuka. He wondered how he was doing – Izaya, was it? Did he go home after walking out like that? He seemed like the type of person who might not even have a home to go to, with how annoying he was.

When Shizuo stumbled into his apartment, he collapsed onto the gray sheets of his bed. He didn't bother getting under the covers, far too exhausted from the days events.

The last thought that passed through his mind was thought of the flea's irritating smirk.


End file.
